A Place of Hiding

Nobby had been wearing one of his wife’s aprons, and he took this off and laid it on the back of a kitchen chair. He looked crazily as if he were enjoying their conversation, and his enjoyment increased with what he next revealed. The plans that Guy had arranged to have delivered from America were false, he said. He’d seen them himself, and they weren’t legitimate. From what he could tell, they weren’t even plans for a museum. So what did Frank Ouseley think of that?

“He didn’t intend to build a museum,” Nobby informed him. “It was all a game of build-’em-up-knock-’em-down. And we were the nine pins. You, me, Henry Moullin, and anyone else who would’ve been involved. Puff up our expectations with his big plans and then watch us squirm and beg as we get deflated: That was the story. The game went only as far as me, though. Then Guy got chopped and the rest of you were left hanging and wondering how to get the project up and running without him here to give his ‘blessing.’ But I wanted you to know. No sense in my being the only one to have reaped the benefit of Guy’s unusual sense of humour.”

Frank struggled to digest this information. It ran contrary to everything he’d known about Guy and everything he’d experienced as the man’s friend. Guy’s death and the terms of his will had put paid to the museum. But that there had never been the intention of building it...Frank couldn’t afford to think that now. Or ever, for that matter. The cost was too great.

He said, “The plans...The plans that the Americans delivered...?”

“Phony as hell,” Nobby said pleasantly. “I saw them. A bloke from London brought them here. I don’t know who drew them or what they’re for, but what they aren’t for is a museum down the lane from St. Saviour’s Church.”

“But he had to have...” What? Frank wondered. He had to have what? Known that someone would look closely at the plans? When? That night? He’d unveiled a skilled drawing of a building which he’d declared was the selected design, but no one had thought to ask him about the plans themselves. “He must have been duped,” Frank said. “Because he did intend to build that museum.”

“With what money?” Nobby asked. “As you pointed out, his will didn’t leave a penny towards building anything, Frank, and he didn’t give Ruth the high sign that she was to fund it if something happened to him. No. Guy wasn’t anyone’s dupe. But we were. The lot of us. We played right along.”

“There’s got to be some sort of mistake. A misunderstanding. Perhaps he’d made a bad investment recently and lost the funds he intended to build with. He wouldn’t have wanted to admit to that...He wouldn’t have wanted to lose face in the community, so he carried on as if nothing had changed so no one would know...”

“You think so?” Nobby made no effort to hide the incredulity in his voice. “You actually think so?”

“How else can you explain...? Wheels had already been set in motion, Nobby. He would have felt responsible. You’d left your job and set yourself up. Henry had invested in his glassmaking. There were stories in the paper and expectations in people’s minds. He would have to confess or pretend to carry on if he’d lost that money, hoping that people would lose interest over time if he dragged his feet long enough.”

At the table, Nobby crossed his arms. “That’s what you actually think?” His tone suggested that the former student had become the present master. “Yes. Indeed. I can see how you might need to hold on to that belief.”

Frank thought he saw the sudden realisation flash on Nobby’s face: the fact that he himself—possessor of thousands of items of ostensibly beloved wartime memorabilia—did not want that material ever to see the light of day. And while that was indeed the truth of the matter, there was no way Nobby Debiere could have known it. The matter was too complicated for him to be able to suss out. As far as he knew, Frank Ouseley was just another disappointed member of the group who’d hung their hats on a scheme that had come to nothing.

Frank said, “I suppose I’m reeling from all this. I just can’t believe...There has to be an explanation somewhere.”

“I’ve just given it to you. I only wish Guy were here so he could enjoy the result of his machinations. Look. Let me show you.” Nobby went to a corner of the work top, where it appeared that the family kept the day’s post. Unlike the rest of the house, it was a messy area, with stacks of letters, magazines, catalogues, and telephone directories all piled together. From the bottom of this pile, Nobby brought out a single sheet and handed it over.

Frank saw that it was the copy and the artwork for an advertisement. In it, a cartoon Nobby Debiere stood at a draughtsman’s table on which was spread out some sort of drawing. Around his cartoon feet lay partially unrolled scrolls on which other drawings appeared. The copy introduced his new enterprise as Bertrand Debiere’s Repairs, Refurbishments, and Renovations and the address of the establishment was right there on Fort Road.

“I’ve had to let my secretary go, of course,” Nobby said with a forced cheer that was chilling to hear. “So she’s out of work as well, which I’m sure would have delighted Guy no end had he only lived to see it happen.”